The Death Of A Beautiful Thing
Such beauty is indescribable.
Imagine a field of roses,
Each with a dozen thorns of black diamond,
And you might come close.
There is no warning,
No countdown,
No “t-minus 10 seconds to impact”.
But boy oh boy, Houston, do we have a problem.
It’s code red, and the sleeping giant has risen.
At one point, things might have been fixable,
But that was long ago.
Now it’s too late, last stop, everyone off.
Last call for alcohol, and he’s having a double shot;
One part greed, two parts jealousy, with a splash of anger thrown in for good measure.
It’s bitter going down, oh yeah.
And yeah kid, you better believe that it burns like hell.
So where’s the beauty in spitting fire?
Where’s the serenity in tearing apart something beautiful?
That field of roses is now ablaze,
And is being stomped flat by the once slumbering giant.
And who would’ve thought that when beauty dies,
It’s not with a bang,
But a whimper.
